Observations of the Clinically Insane
by pathera
Summary: Sequel to Methods of Insanity. Even outside of Arkham, Crane can't help but be drawn to the Joker. Through careful observation and choice encounters he's drawn deeper and deeper into the world of the madman, right alone with everyone else. Two-shot.
1. I Observation

A/N: So...this is a sequel to _Methods of Insanity_. (Though, for the record, you _can _read this one as a stand-alone. I do allude to the previous one, but you'd be just fine without reading it.) One that I never expected to write, first of all, as at the conclusion of that first fic I had _no _ideas for a continuation or a sequel of any kind. Especially as _Methods _turned slashy on me and I had no idea as to how that relationship would turn out beyond the walls of Arkham. Still, I did leave it open, with Crane making plans to escape. But I never actually thought that I would write anything more with that particular story. And then, of course, things change. You can blame _slantedwonders _for that. Because she bought _Mad Love_, and I, naturally, stole it in order to read it. Which threw me right back into the Batman fandom. And after a few conversations with her all the ideas started coming up out of nowhere. Thus, this was born. _Observations _is different from _Methods _in the fact that it is longer (it's a two-shot), the style has changed a bit, the relationships are more complicated, etc. This first part is exposition and Crane's thoughts, while the second part is set more in the style of _Methods_ with the interactions between Crane and others. Enjoy!

Disclaimer: I really wish that I owned Batman, but alas, I do not.

Pairings: Crane/Joker, Crane/Batman, Crane/Harley, Harley/Joker, Joker/Batman (could I add any more? Haha. In case you haven't noticed, there are elements of slash to this, but they're subtle. Nothing more than a kiss, and it's more about attraction and obsession.)

Observations of the Clinically Insane

_I._

_Observation_

Dr. Jonathan Crane is surprised by how simple it actually is to escape from Arkham. He manages it less than a week after he decides on his course of action, and during the actual operation he is out and walking the streets in less than twenty minutes. No wonder Gotham is overrun by criminal activity, if it is _that _simple to break out of what is supposed to be a secure, maximum security insane asylum.

Of course, he _is _a genius, so perhaps it is not such an ordinary feat for the reams of lesser inmates. He's on a different level.

As is the person he seeks.

In the week that Crane has had to plan his escape he has also had time to examine his motivations for escape. At first he was reluctant to examine said motivations, perhaps fearing that they were founded on personal feelings. Now though, after he has taken the time, he has determined the true reasoning behind his sudden desires to escape. The motivation is simple and speaks to his core, and it is this: as an objective psychologist he cannot simply sit back and allow the most fascinating subject in probably the last century to remain unobserved. It is against all scientific principles.

He has already borne witness to the Joker's psychological abnormality, and he _craves _to further study the madman. No. It is a feeling beyond mere personal desire. It is his scientific _duty. _He can place himself in a position no other respectable psychologist would dare venture. He—Dr. Jonathan _Scarecrow_ Crane—can peer into the mind of the _Joker _and, perhaps, remain unscathed.

Well, at least partially unscathed.

He prefers not to think of the consequences of what might happen if he draws too close to his subject, if he allows himself to become too involved. This is science, after all, even if the subject in question is a personal fascination of his.

He remembers the thrill of fear that being in the presence of the psychotic clown gives, and shoves it to the back of his mind. This is science, all science, and nothing more. Strictly observation, strictly in order to better understand a man who presents as a force of nature and chaos rather than a mortal terrorist.

Or, so he keeps telling himself. For a person so deep into the examination of the human psyche, Crane is mortal in his own personal denials.

____

On the outside, free of the constraints of Arkham, Crane finds himself wandering. Much of his life has been spent within the confines of that dark place, first as a doctor in control, then as a prisoner. This is, perhaps, the reason he has not attempted to escape since his return. He has no place to go. Crane lives a solitary life, wrapped in his work, in his madness, in the depths of the human mind. He exists in a place where the mind has control, where he twists the mind into a weapon more potent than any other.

And outside of Arkham, he has nowhere.

Yet the lure of his subject is enough to draw him out. He returns to his former apartment, just long enough to break in and remove the loose floor board and retrieve his stash of fear toxin and his extra mask, just long enough to leave the new owner of the apartment writhing and screaming on the floor. Then he's gone. Crane recedes, and Scarecrow lives.

Crane doesn't remember much of that time. He wakes on the cold floor of an unfamiliar, empty apartment, his muscles kinked and knotted, one hand clutching his mask. His stores of toxin are lower, and the news reports tell of attacks, of people screaming in fear of the unseen, of people whose hearts cease and falter from the overload of the mind. He knows he is responsible for these attacks, but this does not bother him. He accepts what he is, and his only regret is that he does not recall these moments; he regrets that the Scarecrow takes over and does allow his rational mind to raise enough to document and observe these experimentations in fear.

It is a passing regret, and soon he regains control. Scarecrow is part of himself, and _he _controls it, not the other way around.

Now, prepared, he goes in search of his subject.

____

The streets are rife with rumors about the Joker. Crane is interested—and pleased—with the response of common criminals to his presence. The minute they realize who, exactly, they are speaking to he sees that little light of fear strike up in their eyes. When he questions them as to their knowledge of the Joker the fear sparks higher. Interesting. Even the _hint _of the clown has an intriguing impact.

People tell him many things. According to rumor the Joker and his little pet Harley Quinn are taking Gotham by storm. According to rumor the Batman is beside himself, obsessed and bent to the task of capturing the Joker. The rumors say many things, and as they are coerced by fear, Crane _knows _that they are as true as possible. Still, none of these rumor mention _where _the clown is hiding. The madman seems to shift through the city like shadow, never remaining in the same place.

But Crane is a genius, and more than a little mad himself. If anyone can find the Joker, it is him.

____

He succeeds in his task. It takes time and patience and discipline. He is stalking a creature of pure flame, a mythological beast hiding within a human-shaped shell. Fortunately, those who enter into servitude are breakable, and they lead him straight to their master.

Now that he has found his subject he must play another game. Now he must watch, observe carefully and keenly, without revealing his presence, without becoming involved. He remembers clearly the Joker's touch—_like fire on his skin_—and he remembers the magnetism. It is simple to be drawn in, to allow himself to be sucked into the Joker's games. But he is a scientist. He will sit on the sidelines and observe. He will _not _go near enough to be burned.

He positions himself to observe without being seen. He is a ghost, haunting fire, lurking near chaos. And he watches.

The first time he actually _sees _the Joker, all the breath goes rushing out of him. That gaudy purple velvet suit, that greasy, greenish hair; that cracked white paint and bright, lurid, _absurd _smile. These elements themselves are ludicrous, comical even. There is no reason why, when combined together, they should form something so _terrifying_. One has but to _glance _at the Joker and feel that rush of horror, because this man, though wrapped in these absurd casings, is an incarnation of some ancient deity of darkness. Seeing him brings back the memories, brings back the instinctive rush of fear.

There aren't many things that frighten Crane, but the Joker's sheer presence does things to him that he doesn't even comprehend. And he is _fascinated _by that.

When he hears the Joker's voice he shivers. The cadence of the voice, the sing-song quality, the hysterical bought of laughter, and then that guttural _growl _of anger, of fury. He's not sure which the real voice is. One voice is the demon beneath the skin; the other is the clown, and he's not sure which voice is more disturbing. There's a duality to the clown's psyche, as though he is two persons and neither is any saner than the other.

_Fascinating_.

_____

Almost more fascinating—_almost_—than the Joker himself is what he does to the people around him. His henchmen live in fear of him. Their loyalty is ensured not by greed or from actual _devotion, _but rather from a basic survival instinct. Once in the service of the Joker there is no escape, except for death. And that death often comes at the hand of their master, so it is no wonder that most of the servants are insane beyond the point of rationality.

Harley Quinn—_Har-lee Quinn—get it?—_is another matter. Crane himself watched her descent. He watched her melt like putty, falling like a deer before a rabid wolf. He recognizes some of himself in Dr. Harleen Quinzel—a talented young psychologist, drawn to the madness. But there's a difference between them. Scarecrow is a manifestation of something within him, of his own deep-seeded madness, his own obsessions with fear and power and control. But Harley Quinn, the woman dressed in red and black with her face painted white and her lips painted redder than blood, she is a twisted creation of the Joker. Some of the madness is her own, yes, some of it is, but it would not have surfaced without the _push_. She is a creation; _Crane _is a manifestation.

He thinks that _this _is the reason why the Joker so quickly grows bored of her. Crane winces every time her high voice screeches out _"Puddin'!" _and he sees the Joker's wince and clenched jaw and suppressed growl. He's not surprised when the madman's irritation exhibits in physical violence. He backhands Miss Harley Quinn and sends her sprawling to the ground. He screams at her, abuses her. Hell, he pushes her off of a landing. It's a short drop, but it has to hurt all the same.

But Harley remains. Sometimes she runs off, tears in her eyes; sometimes she tries to leave. Always she returns. Because the Joker can be charming. He'll smile at her or caress her cheek gently, moments after he's hit her. He'll kiss her softly or say a kind word, or leave a rose on her bedside table, with a little note just for her. Crane sees the light in Harley's eyes when these things happen. It's faith, belief that he really _does _love her, foolish hope of a foolish little girl. Equally he sees the glimmer in the Joker's eyes, one that is familiar from his days of staring into the man's cell. It's all a game to the clown. Every soft word is a lie, a manipulation.

Crane is almost surprised by how damn _good _the madman is at manipulating. He shouldn't be surprised; he's felt those subtle manipulations himself. But it still surprises him at moments, to see the rational, logical, _cold _mind beneath the heat. It reminds him of how multi-faceted the man can be. Not that he _needs _reminding.

And then…then there is the Batman.

From the moment that the Joker was thrown back into his cell that first day Crane has knownof his obsession with the Bat. Granted, the Batman is a whole other psychological enigma, one that Crane would _love _to get his hands on. He would love to delve into the depths of a mind that drives someone to dress up like a _bat _and dive off of roofs. And the Joker seems to have the same kind of fascination. Batman is to the Joker what the Joker is to Crane; that puzzle that just _needs _to be solved.

Of course, the Joker doesn't want to _solve_ the Batman. He seems to have an instinctive understanding of the Batman and instead wants to _twist_. He doesn't want to destroy the Bat. To the contrary, Crane detects a certain perverse adoration. The Joker wants to pull the Batman down, to deconstruct him to a point of depravity. _"__**Anyone **__can be corrupted, Dr. Scarecrow-man. All you need is a little __**push**__, and gravity does the rest. A'course, we might need to push old Batsy out of a plane…but they all fall eventually. Oh, do they all fall."_

When the Joker sits in his headquarters of the moment, pouring over sheets of paper, ignoring Harley, Crane sees his mouth move in an endless repetition. He can just barely making out the shape of the word that the red, grinning mouth makes over and over again: _Batman_.

The clown's dark eyes—Crane isn't sure what color they are, and makes a mental note to check at their next face to face meeting—lift and land on the window outside of which the good doctor lurks. Crane freezes, feeling the intensity of the gaze even through the glass and the space between them. There's a challenge in those eyes and the clown's perpetual grin sharpens. He feels like a butterfly pinned to a wall, unable to move, the fear coursing through him.

And then Crane moves backwards, away, and slips into the darkness. His heart pounds for blocks, and all the while he still feels that gaze, burning into him. He thinks that, perhaps, he should desist in his observations, lest he find himself in a dangerous position, lest he find himself the observee rather than the observ_er_. It's a passing thought, and he doesn't give it heed.

He will return in the morning. He will always return.

* * *

On the second part of this: It's almost done. I've been stuck on it for a little while, but now I've started writing it again and I have only a few scenes left. With any hope it will be up tonight, but I'm not making any promises (since I always break them).

Remember that reviews are love! And they might just make the second part come faster (if you're lucky)! (And thank you to all of those who reviewed _Methods_. I can promise that you'll get a response this time around, should you review again!)


	2. II Experimentation

A/N: **I** am _exhausted. _But I have finished. This is complete. It gets fairly weird (I think) towards the end, because my metaphors and similes got away from me, but I accept this for what it is. As far as pairings go there is much innuendo on the behalf of Joker/Batman (more one-sided), some Harley/Joker, some Joker/Crane (which is what _started _this whole thing), and a little subtle Crane/Harley (which I like more and more as I write it). Enjoy! And Cat (_slantedwonders)_, you're buying me a frozen caramel at Panera tomorrow.

Disclaimer: In the few hours since I posted the first chapter I have magically bought the rights to the entire Batman franchise. (_sarcasm)_

_II. _

_Experimentation_

Crane nearly jumps out of his skin when there is a soft sound behind him. He whirls around, finger hovering over the dispenser for his fear toxin. One touch of a button and an intruder would be screaming on the ground. He _almost _presses the button out of instinct when he sees the outline of the man standing in his ratty apartment, but when he recognizes the features he pulls his hand back.

He stares at the Joker, who looks around the apartment with a look of amused interest, that crazed grin bursting on his face. His heart is racing, first from the shock of the intruder, now from the rush of fear that comes with close proximity to _this _man. He has never been in the same room as the clown with no boundaries between them; their interactions have always taken place within the confines of a cell, with barriers separating them. Even then their interactions were tense and high-strung; the Joker is an unpredictable element of chaos, and Crane almost shudders to think of what might occur now.

"How did you get in here?" He asks, pleased to find that his voice is even and smooth.

The Joker's gaze stops shifting around the room and settles on him. A shiver runs down his back, because it's as though he's staring into the face of death's incarnation. The clown nods his head towards the balcony window, which is wide open.

"I heard our little _straw-man _made a disappearing act. _Poof!_" What is most unsettling about conversing with the Joker is the way he speaks. He speaks in the manner of a child, full of enthusiasm and excitement, drawing out words and enunciating in an up and down manner that gives to an animated dictation. Yet there's always that undertone of danger, a current of unpredictability, leaving one without accurate assessment of the man's mood.

"I escaped from Arkham, yes." He says, keeping his tone neutral.

The Joker's eyes—they're green, Crane notes, though a subdued, muddy variation of the color—glitter with what he _hopes _is amusement. Though, with the Joker, amusement is just as dangerous as other emotions, if not more. "Told ya the world could use a little more _mad_-_ness_, didn't I?" He seems oh-so pleased with himself, and Crane feels irrationally irritated.

"My escape had nothing to do with your words or your own escape," he begins to protest.

He cuts off when the Joker throws back his head and lets out a trill of high-pitched laughter. Crane presses his lips together and stares. When the laughter dies off the Joker is grinning, oh is he _grinning_.

"A'course not, Doctor _Scare-crow-_man." He rolls the 'r's in the word _scarecrow_, drawing it out like a purr. "A'course not." He chuckles, as though those words are an inside joke that only he knows.

Crane folds his arms. "Why are you here, Joker?"

The Joker takes a step forward and he automatically flinches. It's a reflex, trained into him through his little exposure to the clown and his own paranoid instincts. He sees the glow of pleasure in the Joker's eyes; the man derives pleasure from seeing fear. Much like himself, actually. Although, _his _pleasure is gained from a purely scientific standpoint.

Ah, Dr. Crane and his denials.

"Methinks that the _scare-crow _has been _watching_."

He freezes. His brain shuts off, refusing to provide him with an explanation or a denial, leaving him standing there, gaping, scrambling for some excuse. His hand creeps over to the toxin dispenser button, because he's sure that the Joker will launch at him any second now. He's sure that he'll die with that leering red and white grin bearing down upon him.

But the Joker just grins and grins. Then he turns and walks towards the balcony, stopping only when he reaches the railing, then turning halfway. "Come in next time, _Scarecrow_. We can play a little game."

Then the clown jumps over the balcony and falls out of sight. Crane doesn't bother to rush to the window; he knows perfectly well that the Joker has some trick up his sleeve, some way of saving himself, some way of causing chaos. Sure enough, a few minutes later there is the sound of an explosion and the apartment shudders a little.

As he leans against the wall, eyes staring blindly at a water stain on the ceiling, he thinks that he can hear the fading sounds of laughter.

He wonders what kind of _games _the Joker has in mind.

_____

Despite the Joker's…ahem, _invitation_, he remains outside, watching from the shadows. He's a scientist, an observer, _not _a participant. The next time he interacts with the Joker he wants it to be on _his _terms. (And he knows that is impossible, which is why he's still out here, lurking out of sight.)

Poor Harley gets tossed unceremoniously out of the building again. Crane can't quite tell what she did to piss the Joker off this time—although, quite honestly it could have been something as simple as breathing a little too loudly—but she lands hard on the ground, and when she stumbles to her feet her arm wraps around her midsection. The white paint that covers her face is smudged, as though fingers have been dragged forcefully across her cheek, which is probably true. There are tears running down her cheeks, cutting tracks through the white and pulling black lines of mascara down, as though the black mask is melting on her face. She glances over her shoulder at the door, staring for a long moment. He hears a choked sob, and a mutter of something—_"Last time, Harley, this is the last time"_—and then she stumbles away.

He watches her go, and for half a moment he contemplates going after her. He wants to touch her cheek, place his fingers gently where those smears are, run his thumb across the curve of her cheekbones; he wants to bring her into her arms. And then he wonders where in the _hell _that compassionate compulsion came from. Perhaps it's the vulnerability that she presents, which is so different from the rest of this shadowy world they exist in. Perhaps it's that he recognizes himself in her, in the person so drawn to madness that she—_he_—becomes it.

He takes one hesitating step in the direction that she has gone, and then the explosion of sound from within the building draws him back. There's a bang and a growl and the shrill sound of the Joker's laughter; Crane races back to the window and peers through the dirty pane and his heart races. The Batman is _right there_, a form of fluid moving shadow that crouches on the ground and then moves to a standing position. The Joker is still laughing, is laughing so hard, in fact, that he's holding onto the table in order to keep from falling over. And then his lips move, but the sound is muffled; the laughter is so clear through the glass and wall that separates, but the words are too muffled to be heard clearly.

He _has _to get in there. Forget all of his reservations about entering the building; there is no force on earth that will keep him from being able to hear the conversation between the _Joker _and the _Batman_. He _will _get in there. He _has_ to.

By the time he does get in there he knows that he's missed _something_. Something vital, something of terrible power, some word, some look; the air is charged, like there is a thunderstorm hovering in the atmosphere of the room. There's murder in the Batman's eyes; Crane can see it even though those eyes are shadowed within the mask that the man hides behind, and he recoils at it. He's seen anger in the Batman's eyes before; he's seen anger and righteousness and something primal and dark, a good old touch of madness, but he's never seen this pure desire to _destroy_. He recognizes it though. It's the look that haunts the back of the Joker's green eyes, never ceasing. And this, he realizes, is the power of the Joker, the power to bring this man—the _Batman_—to the brink, to the edge, the point that he so struggles to stay away from.

_"'Course, Batsy didn't __kill __Harvey. He couldn't have. That's one of his __rules__. Oh, but he'll break it, before the end. He's no different from us, Batsy, just as soon as he gets past that stubborn little rule of his. And he will, oh he __will__." _He remembers the Joker's words, remembers them and shudders to see the look in the vigilante's eyes, and to know that the Joker just might achieve his goal….

The Joker grins, broad and wide, showing all his teeth. He tilts his head to the side a bit and grins, grins, _grins_. "Well, Batsy? It's your move, _sweetheart_."

Apparently the word '_sweetheart' _is the key to making the Bat absolutely _snap_. The black-armored vigilante flies at the Joker, all force and fury and Crane is _fascinated. _For a moment he's frozen in the shadows, just watching, because he literally cannot move. It's like being witness to a battle of nature, like watching a war between a tornado and a volcano. Joker is the whirling black funnel cloud of chaos and fury, while Batman is the volcano, the earth-shattering force lying deep underground, that when it erupts it tears the world asunder. He knows, instinctively, that anyone caught in the crossfire of their feud will suffer a fate worse than death.

And yet, when the Batman knocks the knife—which appeared from the folds of that purple velvet suit, and there are probably more sharp edges hidden in every soft crease—from the Joker's hand and then knocks the clown backwards, bearing over the man with those dark hands coming to clasp around that white-painted neck…Crane is terrified. Terrified _for _the Joker, terrified that this is the moment where the Batman tumbles over into the abyss and snaps the Joker's neck and becomes _exactly _what the clown wants him to be.

The Joker isn't laughing now, because those hands are cutting off his air supply, but he's _trying _to. Even from across the room Crane can see that mad amusement flickering. And the Batman just bears down, like molten lava sliding over the sides of a mountain towards the inevitable goal of the sleepy little town. There's nothing in his eyes—which are so _dark_, like the depths of his (_their) _soul—that says he's about to let go, nothing that says he remembers those rules (_silly little rules, the Joker would say) _of his.

Crane stands in the shadows and fears—_knows—_that he's about to see the volcano open up and swallow the tornado whole. He's about to see the earth shatter open and consume the air; he's about to see the world destroy itself.

He can't let that happen.

Dr. Jonathan Crane is not a hero. This is quite obvious given his penchant for torture, pain, and the occasional murder. So one can certainly say that Crane is not a hero, but one cannot claim he is completely without his moments of foolish bravery. And he's full of foolish bravery when he launches himself out of the shadows towards the Batman. He knows perfectly well that he's no match for the Bat in physical prowess, and the man is immune to his original fear toxin. But he _does _have a few more tricks up his sleeves.

And as he throws his arms around the Bat's neck he punches the button for one such trick.

The stream of highly compressed gas goes straight into the Batman's face. The man's hands fly up to hit Crane, who holds on firmly. The vigilante chokes, then stiffens and slumps to the side, sending Crane tumbling off, hands sliding on the black plated armor. Beneath them both the Joker shifts, not laughing, ominously silent in fact. Crane scrambles away and the Joker extracts himself from beneath the Batman, and as Crane turns he finds that it's his turn for hands to latch around _his _neck and _squeeze_.

Any fear the Joker has inspired in him before pales in comparison to now. Up close the white paint is cracking and he can see the pale peachy flesh underneath; the scars are curling and raised and the absurd red paint makes it seem as though the wounds are perpetually bleeding. The Joker's eyes are so _dark_, not in a physical sense of color but in the depth of what he finds there. And the anger takes his breath away…although that might also be from the hands which are literally choking the life out of him.

"What did you _do_?" The Joker hisses.

"I-It's sleeping gas. Just unconscious," he manages to gasp out. "Wake in ten mi-minutes."

The Joker's hands relax, still resting on his neck but not choking anymore. He shivers, too aware of the heat—the Joker's skin seems hotter than a normal human, hot like a fever—and of the rough calluses on his palms and of the blunt, rounded tips of those yellowed fingernails. The clown presses close to his face, and Crane is transported through memory back to when those red lips pressed through the bars of the cell and crushed against his. "_Next time_," the clown says, "_don't __**interfere**_."

There is the sound of the door opening and they turn automatically towards the entrance. "Hey, I heard banging, what's going on—?" Harley Quinn pauses in the doorway when she sees them, and Crane has an automatic image of what she probably sees: the Joker with his hands resting on Crane's neck, their faces close together, Batman unconscious at their feet. A hysterical giggle bubbles up in his throat, but he squashes it down. Harley frowns, her eyes showing suspicion as they flicker over him, then lighting up when they turn to the Joker. "Aw, puddin'! Now why wasn't I invited t' the festivities?"

The Joker pulls away and Crane finds that he can breathe again, his lungs inflating and the pain that he hadn't even noticed easing. He's sure that there will be a ring of fingerprint shaped bruises around his neck, tangible evidence of the Joker's mark on him.

"Harley, _darling_," the Joker purrs, and Crane _sees _her melt a little_. "_The Batman decided to crash our little party, and the Scarecrow decided he didn't want to miss out on the fun either. Fetch me some rope, won't you, _dear_?" She bobs her head and runs off to find the rope, and the clown turns back to him. "Here for the games, are you _Scare-crow_?" And then he grins, all of his anger gone as quickly as a child's temper tantrum fades. "You won't be disappointed."

_____

Harley delivers a coil of rope which the Joker—grinning, giggling like some demented version of a school girl—wraps around the Batman, tying the vigilante to a chair. She and Crane had helped to lift the Batman into the chair—he had seen Harley's fingers twitch towards the man's mask, the quick desire to know _who_ is under there—and then they are banished. They aren't allowed to participate in the bondage; the Joker gives them a clear look that should they even _think _of touching the Batman he'll shove a bomb right down their throats, and so they retreat. He finds himself standing next to the black and red costumed woman, their shoulders almost brushing. She glances at him while the Joker skips around the Batman, stringing the rope around and around.

"You're Jonathan Crane. I remember you, from Arkham."

He nods. "And you, Harleen Quinzel."

She jerks her head to the side. "Don't say that name, not around _him_."

He turns his head and looks her over. "Alright, then, _Harley_ _Quinn_." He says her name slow, drawing it out, though he's not sure why he says it that way. She smiles a little.

"All done!" The Joker proclaims, tying the knots in the rope tightly. He says it with the proud accomplishment of a boy scout who has just earned his newest merit badge. Crane and Harley jerk apart, putting distance between themselves as they walk towards the clown. And then the Joker plops himself down on the Batman's lap, sprawling himself over the man like a child settling himself on Santa's lap. The Joker now seems less like a force of nature and more like a perverse child, delighting in his newest _toy_. Harley's jaw clenches and Crane feels his stomach lurch, and wonders at it.

"How long 'till Batsy wakes, eh Dr. Scarecrow?"

"Any minute now," he says. He reaches into the folds of his suit and pulls out his mask, slipping it over his head. He craves the safety of his alter ego now, when the volcano begins to wake. The Joker giggles and runs his hands over the armor covering the vigilante's chest. And like magic, the Batman begins to wake. The Batman groans low in his throat, then shakes his head from side to side as though dislodging an unwanted thought; his arms flex and when they meet the ropes his eyes fly open.

The shock in the Bat's eyes when he sees the Joker's grinning face so close to his own is almost comical.

"_Getoffme_!" The words have no separation between them, becoming one single word roared with a violent fury. The volcano is about to erupt. Crane takes a step backwards, and Harley flinches, but the Joker…no, he has no weak human reaction. He's a force as great as the Batman, and the sky is not afraid of the earth. The Joker wraps his arms around the man's neck, but his manner isn't hostile. It's almost…loving, if such a thing is possible.

"Oh c'mon Batsy, don't get your panties in a twist. Let's just have a little _fun_."

The Batman recoils, disgust plain on his face. His eyes flicker over the Joker's shoulder, landing on where he and Harley stand. A sneer crosses his lips as he stares at them. "_Crane_," he growls, and he shudders. No, he's not Crane right now; he's the _Scarecrow_. He's hiding in his mask, or perhaps…he's bringing out his true face. His eyes dart to Harley and his eyes are softer, almost sympathetic, though his voice is no softer. "And I see you've got your pet here."

Harley shifts, her eyes dangerous, tension in the lines of her body; he sees the beginning of motion, as though she is going to take a step forward and he lashes out, catching her arm. She looks at him, dark lips parting, and he shakes his head, a silent warning.

"It's a party, just for _you_," the Joker croons. He's not paying attention to anyone except the Batman. It's as though the rest of them don't exist, all of his concentration bent to the incarnation of both bat and man and shadow.

"Thanks," the Batman says, "but I'd rather we take the festivities _elsewhere_."

The Joker laughs. "Of course, Batsy! Why don't you whisk me away to your cave and do naughty things to me in the dark?" The clown bends in, red lips pressed into the hollow of the Bat's neck. "No one has to _know_," he says in a stage-whisper.

Crane frowns. It's almost as though he's _purposely _doing this just to try and evoke some kind of response from _them _as well as from the Bat. The Batman growls—it's the volcano rumbling, Crane thinks—and there's fire in his eyes. "I was thinking somewhere more like Arkham."

"By all means, Bats! Arkham would be _delightful_, if _your _there."

"This time I'll make sure you get put away for _good_."

The Joker pouts. "Now, now, _Bat-man_. Arkham's only fun if _you're _there too."

Crane sees the tense before the movement actually occurs, and in a flash—too fast to think—he knows what's going to happen. "Not today, Joker!" The Batman _roars_, and then it's as though he's growing spikes, black spikes that jut out of his armor and cut through the rope. With his arms free he sends the Joker sprawling. The clown hits the concrete and just laughs and laughs, while the rest of the world goes to hell.

Harley is screaming and the Joker has a knife in his hand—it flashes silver and deadly and seems like a spear of light as he thrusts it into the dark vortex that is the Batman—and Crane just _stands _there, unable to think, unable to breathe. He doesn't even know what happens, doesn't even comprehend; he blinks and finds that the Joker is slumped, unconscious in the Batman's arm and Harley is silent and it's as though the world has paused for a moment before stuttering on.

Harley moves to run towards the Batman—and towards her _puddin'_—but he catches her by the arm again, pulling her away. _"Let me go!" _She says, and he's not sure if it's a whisper or a scream. He shakes his head.

"We've got no chance against the Batman. _Run, NOW_." He pulls her along, stumbling as they race towards the door. He keeps expecting an avalanche of black to come rushing down on them, but it doesn't. At the door he dares to glance back over his shoulder, and instead of seeing the darkness right behind him he finds that the scene is virtually unchanged. The Batman pulls the rope from the chair and binds it around the Joker, but his eyes are looking towards them.

He _lets _them go. Crane knows this instinctively. He doesn't pause to wonder if it's because the Bat has forgiven him (_fat chance) _or because of that soft sympathy that was in his eyes when he looked at Harley or because he just doesn't feel like chasing them when he already has the big catch of the day. He thinks of these things later, but now he just _runs_, never loosening his grasp on Harley, afraid that if he does she might spin like a needle on a compass and run straight back towards the Joker (her _North_, because the needle always points north and Harley always runs back to the clown).

Blocks away he finally loosens his grip and she wrenches away from him, her eyes distraught behind that black mask and that white paint. "Why did you make me _leave _him?" She shouts. He leans against a wall and pulls the mask from his head and his lungs pull in the crisp, cool air.

"If I hadn't you'd be in a cell right next to the Joker."

"_So?" _She screeches. "Maybe that's where I _want _to be!"

He realizes, looking at her, that she's just a scared little girl wearing face paint and a funny red and black costume. She's completely lost without the Joker, because she doesn't really belong in this world. Not by herself, not now. In a few years, after she's been hardened by constant exposure to the clown, well then she'll fit in seamlessly. But not now. And she knows it. He sees it in her eyes, that primal fear of a trapped animal.

Well, everyone _knows _that Crane has a _thing _for fear.

So, when she stumbles towards him and folds into his arms—apparently seeing something in _his _eyes—he doesn't wonder why his arms close around her. She's scared and he's strong(-_er) _and he just wants to be a first-hand witness to her fear.

It's always science with Jonathan Crane.

That's why he pats her back and lets her hold him (_he holds her back) _and whispers to her: _"We'll get him out." _

After all, he can't very well observe his star subject if the man is in Arkham, now can he?

_____

Breaking _into _Arkham, it seems, is even easier than breaking _out_. Particularly when there are two of them. He and Harley work as a well-coordinated team. It's funny, really, how their minds work in such similar ways. Of course, they _do _share the same background in psychology. Getting into the insane asylum—especially when they both know the corridors so well—is a simple matter. They take out the guards they need to and then they're both standing outside of the Joker's cell.

Harley flutters her eyes and wraps a hand around one of the bars and _purrs_: "Well _hey _there, puddin'."

The Joker jumps to his feet and grins wide. They burst the lock open—a localized miniature explosion does the trick—and the Joker bursts out. He grabs Harley and swings her around and plants a big kiss right on her lips. And then, when she's leaning against the wall, cross-eyed and floating a million miles away, the man turns to him. He finds himself being pressed up against the wall, with fingernails grazing gently across his cheek, around the curve of his jaw, and then lips are against his and a tongue slips into his mouth and he knows _exactly _why Harley has that euphoric look on her face.

He's not sure that it's physically possible for his heart to keep racing that fast without faltering.

When he comes back to himself he finds Harley handing the Joker the red and white face-paint, and for a second time—like some kind of déjà vu—he witnesses the birth of chaos. Only this time, he's on the other side of the bars. He's on the outside. _(Where he belongs, because he knows now.)_

They make their escape, and this time there is no hesitation. He follows the Joker and Harley, because he is bound now.

This is more than simple science. He's not sure _what _it is, but he's going to find out. He _has _to know. He's standing beneath an open sky; arms spread wide, and now the only question is whether the wind will carry him away or the earth will swallow him whole.

He hopes that it's the wind.

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